Send Me a Sign(72)

The pump beneath my hand jerked to a stop, and I had to force my eyes away from the gold lettering on a teal background so I could unhook the nozzle and close the gas cap on my car.

I’d been searching for a way to know the outcome, and this was a clear sign: a four-leaf clover found under a lucky horseshoe. Or a black cat walking under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth. I wouldn’t know which until I went inside.



I expected scarves and crystal balls, like I’d pass through the modern glass door and face the flaps of an ancient gypsy tent. Not so. It resembled my dentist’s waiting room. There were potted plants, generic landscapes on beige walls, industrial carpeting, and a TV tuned to Lifetime. A large L-shaped desk sat in the center of the room; one arm covered with a computer and printouts, the other with tea things, crystals, and a stack of worn tarot cards. A large woman with frizzy gray hair was seated behind the desk. She smiled and turned off the TV.

“Are you here for a reading, dear?” Her soothing voice sounded too young for her wrinkled face and knobby knuckles.

“I guess.” My hand wouldn’t release the door despite the heat whooshing past me into the cool, late October afternoon.

“Ah, first timer. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” With effort, she pushed herself out of her chair, plugged in an electric teakettle, dimmed the lights, and pressed Play on a stereo. Exotic music filled the air—Gyver would know the instruments and origins; I found it distracting.

“Come. Sit. Let’s do a tarot and tea leaf reading; that’s a good start.”

I let the door slip from my fingers. It banged closed and I startled forward. A printout of prices was displayed in an ornate frame on the corner of the desk. I fumbled in my purse and pulled out a twenty. She hummed as she slid it off the desktop, then began to shuffle and organize her deck of tarot.

“You need to keep in mind that each new card affects the others. The meaning won’t be clear until all cards are laid out. Their order, orientation …”

She continued her explanation, but I found it hard to hear her over the pulse hammering in my ears. After this, I’d know. I’d be able to breathe and relax and maybe start processing all of the thoughts I kept forcing aside. I’d know if we should have the college conversations Dad began and Mom terminated. I’d sit Ally and Hillary down, explain why I’d been so horrible, but tell them not to worry because soon …

“Do you understand?” she asked, gripping my hand with hers. The deep purple-black of her nail polish was disturbing against my pale skin.

I nodded. Soon I would understand everything.

“Good. I need to center myself before we begin.” She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, audibly.

I looked at the deck and my anticipation decayed into terror. The longer she kept her eyes shut, the more ominous the tarot cards appeared. My lip found its way between my teeth.

“I am ready.” She opened her eyes and stared at me. “Let’s begin.”

She flipped the first card with a flourish. It showed a couple in an Adam and Eve posture. “Ah, the Lovers,” she intoned, caressing a dark nail across the title written at the bottom.

I leaned in, curling my hands around the desk. I could feel my heartbeat in my fingertips.

She turned the next card: the Tower—a building struck by lightning, people falling. I shivered as I searched the alarming illustration for symbolism.

The third card didn’t need a label. As soon as she’d moved her hand and revealed a skeleton mounted on a white horse, I knew. The letters D-E-A-T-H at the bottom were superfluous.

I didn’t want to know anymore.



I didn’t notice my trembling until I parked my car in the empty lot at East Lake’s beach. The moments between fleeing from the third card and turning off the ignition were a blur. I had no memory of the turns or decisions that took me to this deserted location. Or if I’d answered her calls of “Wait! I’m not finished,” as I’d bolted out the door.

I stumbled out of my car and vomited on the cracked pavement. The car beeped incessantly to let me know the door was open, but I turned away. My shoes crunched on the frozen sand coating the parking lot as I crossed to the picnic tables where we used to be organized into grade school swim-lesson groups. The same one where I’d first told Gyver I was sick.

We’d had birthday parties and picnics here, back before we turned ten and it became uncool to go to East Lake’s small beach. Chris’s house was across the lake; the Jet Skis pulled up on his dock until the spring. I’d been to so many parties there.

I could see my memories on the surface of the water, rippling with the wind or when an autumn leaf gave up its hold on an oak tree and spiraled down to drift on the lake. Nights of giggles and smiles and dances and kisses. Sleepovers at Ally’s house, where she and I tiptoed downstairs so we could surprise Hil and Lauren with banana pancakes in bed. So many hours of Hil’s hairbrush dance routines, Lauren’s homemade facials and crazy beauty regimens, Ally’s mom’s brownies as we studied and watched musicals. Why hadn’t I appreciated these things when I was healthy? Why had I hidden away from them all fall?

I wouldn’t have a second chance. I cried all the time, yet I couldn’t right now. Maybe I’d used all my tears. And, really, what was I giving up at this point? There wasn’t anything left of the giggling girl I used to be. I’d killed Mia Moore the first time I’d decided to hide my illness.